Glastonbury Tor

Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 1

From a distance it was a mere shadow, a pearl-gray outline of a small sloop moving slowly through calm waters, mainsail half furled. Heavy mist shrouded the shore in a shifting blanket of eerie grey shapes. It was just dawn and the faint glow in the eastern sky suggested the coming of a fine day. It seemed the captain was content to let the light wind move his ship silently toward land.

Throughout the next hour Artor watched his father, Lord Artorius, stare to the east, then to the south in an effort to spot some significant point of land, but it was sharp-eyed Jaret who first caught sight of the landing spot they sought and immediately announced his discovery. Momentarily there was a flurry of activity as the lone crewman, responding to the captain’s orders, lowered the mainsail even more. The ship slowed. Silence pervaded the small company. A grey cloak swished past Artor. Marcus, the fourth member of their small party, moved forward to join Jaret and his father at the prow.

The men were barely visible to Artor, even though they were just paces away. Then Artorius turned and silently made his way back to him. The older man could barely restrain his eagerness. Even in the feeble light his eyes shone. Artor, we’ve made it. Not long now and we shall be back on British soil. His father’s voice, merely a whisper, carried all the excitement built up through years of anticipation.

Those few words were the first his father had spoken to him in three days, beyond mere requests about his state of comfort. All Artor knew was that very soon, they would leave the sheltering confines of the boat and set out for shore.

In the act of turning and what seemed to Artor as an afterthought, his father said, Get yourself together and come with me.

Loosening his damp cloak, Artor rose and prepared to follow.

They had left the port of Cherbourg at dusk three days ago, sailing westward into the glow of the setting sun. When full darkness had descended that first night, a pale, lunar light aided the captain and his lone crewman in charting their course for Britain’s south shore.

Cherbourg harboured fishermen and traders, as well as travellers who wished to move between Gaul and the lands of the old Roman Empire. It served as well as a refuge for outcasts from Britain like Artor and his family.

For more than seven full years Artor had lived just outside of Cherbourg along with a small number of Britons who had fled Britain in fear of their lives following the Saxon revolt. Throughout those years, not for a moment had Artor’s father and mother considered Cherbourg as anything more than a temporary refuge imposed upon them by circumstances.

Artor’s family had once held significant holdings in southern Britain. More than a century had passed since his great grandfather had successfully led the Britons in battles against the Roman legions. Artor’s grandfather had continued this legacy, soldiering in times of unrest, maintaining the peace when times were quiet and offering counsel and good government to those Britons who recognized his leadership and authority. His father’s rule had been one of unrest. Artorius had been unwilling to recognize Saxon property claims and demands for equal treatment before the law, instead favouring his own kind in disputes arising between Saxon and Briton. In the end the Saxons rebelled, led by a strong-willed but soft spoken man named Ebor. The Saxons proved to be formidable fighters, unpredictable and treacherous when fighting. Their strategy of unexpectedly striking and withdrawing was very different from the Romans who stood and faced their enemies as an army.

After arriving in Gaul, a kind of illness had beset Artor’s father. Every so often he would slip into a state of acute melancholia. His first attack had occurred just months after their arrival and lasted a few days. As time passed these bouts of melancholia became longer, stretching into weeks. They were, of course, of great concern to Artor’s mother, but in time they became less worrisome, simply because Artorius himself learned to recognize when an attack was coming on and would retire to his bed. It also became apparent that Artorius would invariably recover from these bouts when good news arrived from Britain.

Since fleeing Britain Artorius had managed to keep a line of communication open with his supporters who had survived the revolt, but had not fled to Gaul. Then, in the spring of this very year, Artorius had had word that the time for his return seemed auspicious. Not only had preparations been made to take up arms against the Saxons, but his supporters believed the Saxons had been lulled into a false sense of security by his long exile.

In Gaul Artor had found life exciting and easy enough. With his tutor, Pitre Priory, he had learned to live off the land, to ride and throw a javelin, to defend himself with shield and sword in the fashion of a Roman centurion. And his mother had taught him to read the written language of the Romans, had taught him a little about preparing food and how to care for his person and possessions.

Throughout his years of exile Artor never gained a full understanding of what had transpired during the Saxon revolt and his father’s role in the uprising. All he had been told was that returning to Britain was a first step in reuniting with other Britons so that his father could challenge the Saxons.

For Artor’s mother, having a husband needing her care and attention and a lively son were not enough. She loathed Gaul, stubbornly refusing to accept her exile and never giving up the customs and routines of her Roman-Briton ancestors. Their destiny was to return to Britain and she had kept this ambition alive in the hearts of her family by forever reminding Artorius and Artor and anyone else who would listen, that Gaul was little more than a temporary interruption to their lives. Never had she considered that by constantly referring to Britain she might be contributing to her husband’s mental instability.

Perhaps Artorius and his two companions had been a little apprehensive about the voyage as they paced the deck or huddled together to converse in whispers during its first few hours. Much later, after the twin torch lights of the harbour had disappeared, they settled as best as they could amongst the fishing nets, ropes and sailor’s gear. In the lonely hours of that first night at sea the only sounds were the hull slicing through the waves, of creaking wood and of straining canvas and rope. Occasionally a chink of sword-steel, the rustle of chain-mail bespoke a man’s restlessness, but little else. Few words were exchanged, almost as if their voices might carry over the water and announce their arrival.

Artor had remained apart from his father and the others, quickly growing accustomed to the sounds of the ship and being excluded from all conversations.

Their first full day of sailing passed without incident as did the second. The wind seemed content to blow in their favour and the weather stayed steady. What changed was the direction of the boat.

Artor noted the sun had risen over the stern on their first day. On the second morning it had risen over the starboard side and this morning it came up over the ship’s prow.

The glow in the eastern sky brightened. Having drifted towards shore for what seemed like an endless period of time, the captain finally dropped anchor, allowing the sloop’s lateen sail to rest on the port side. For Artor it was still too dim to see how far from shore they were. The morning mist remained, but in the distance the sound of water washing against a stony shore was discernible.

Come along, his father whispered.

Strong hands gripped Artor’s arms and momentarily he was dangling in space over the gunnel of the sloop. He felt his feet touch the unsteady floor boards of a small rowboat as a hand steadied his balance. In silence his father settled on the seat beside him.

Directly in front of Artor sat their two companions, oars in hand. As they slipped away from the sloop they were engulfed in the mist. Time passed. The fog remained, muffling the sound of waves lapping the shore and muting the creaking of oars. Ever so gradually a darker line appeared. It seemed to move, to shift restlessly in the early light of dawn, glistening and sending off brief flashes of green and black.

Like his father Artor kept his eyes on the approaching shore, while quietly speculating whether they would find a safe place to land. The boat seemed caught by the incoming tide, heading directly for the stony beach, but a few strong strokes altered its course and they moved along, parallel to the shore while listening to the lapping of the sea against a stony beach. When the sound changed they moved shoreward into shallows where last year’s marsh grass stood. Now the only sound was their small craft brushing through the reeds and then, quite suddenly, they scraped bottom. The oars were quietly secured, the boat concealed under marsh grass.

They moved inland several paces and halted. The mingled smells of the sea, of decaying reeds and marsh grass filled the air. Red-wing blackbirds darted silently over the marsh. The raucous call of a gull momentarily broke the silence, a haunting sound in the misty world about them. Their halt was momentary, long enough to satisfy Artorius that they were quite alone.

Artorius maintained a steady pace ahead of the others, at first following a narrow winding path where the coastal grass had been flattened by the tides and waves. He was in no hurry in the beginning, slowing down often and sometimes bringing everyone to a halt, in part because the shore was unfamiliar and, in part, because he preferred to keep his senses alert for anyone who might have discovered their arrival. Once they left the proximity of the shore, the trail snaked upward toward a forest. Scattered on its periphery were clusters of larch and dark spruce while beyond were the more formidable oaks and hemlocks.

Before long they passed into the forest, the sounds of the sea disappearing, replaced by the sounds of chain-link shirts, the creak of leather, the swish and rustle of leaves and the occasional snap of a branch.

Artorius increased the pace. All Artor could do was follow his father directly ahead and occasionally check on Marcus and Jaret behind.

Sunshine slowly erased the damp chill of the night, warmed the land and dried their garments.

With the improved light Artor was able to see more of the forest through which they moved. Overhead was a canopy of spring foliage, a shiny roof of bright green and yellow, pierced by a thousand shafts of sunlight. A faint breeze rustled the leaves. The creatures of the woods halted their early morning activities, waiting under the canopy for the party to pass. It seemed to Artor as if God’s lesser creatures were treating them as trespassers.

Disregarding the creeping weariness he felt, Artor continued to march. He felt alone in this place, despite Marcus and Jaret being very close. Several times he looked at his father now well ahead of them.

It was midday when Marcus broke the silence of their march. Artorius, we need to rest and eat. He had halted by a stand of pines on the heights of a ridge.

Artor reached the rise and plunked down.

From the gully below Artorius stopped, turned and eyed his companions. Just a while longer and the going becomes easier, he shouted. I’ve come this way before.

Come back, called Jaret. Artor needs a break. He paused, then gestured to Artorius to return. We all do, he murmured.

Artorius remained still.

There’s no need to press on. We have three, maybe four days to make our rendezvous with Calthorp, called Marcus.

Sensible advice, Artor thought but he kept his mouth shut.

Artorius frowned. All right, and began his ascent to the ridge.

Back with the others, Artorius said nothing but looked briefly at Marcus and Jaret, then sat down and joined in the meal of ale, cheese and bread.

It wasn’t so long before Artorius took a long quaff of ale, stashed his drinking flask in his sack and made a point of closing it tight. What say you, Marcus, Jaret? Had your fill?

Marcus snorted derisively, shaking his head back and forth. After a prolonged pause, he asked, Can we not take a little longer?

Artorius stared at Marcus for a long moment, then responded by reminding his friend that his intention was to sleep under his own roof and in his own bed as soon possible.

From the intense look on his father’s face Artor thought he might take up the battle with the Saxons the very next day. Nor would he appreciate anyone, let alone his son, making light of his intentions or slowing down. They left shortly after gathering their belongings.

Eventually Artorius slowed. They had travelled mostly through forest, but there had been short stretches of grassland often overrun with bramble, all of which proved difficult for making rapid headway. On horseback it would have been different, as Artorius pointed out on more than one occasion.

Artor thought otherwise.

By late afternoon long shadows shrouded the forest, making the footing more uncertain and further draining the resources of everyone. Had they started the day fully refreshed from a night’s sleep and a solid meal to break fast, they might have been good to travel until sunset but this was not the case. They had been up since before dawn, had slept fitfully for the past two nights and while their journey had been without incident, it was one full of anticipation and imagined dangers.

When Artorius finally held up, he did so upon a rise. The sky was still clear, not yet losing colour as the sun sank in the west. Time to make camp.

Ahead, the land fell away into a well treed gully. It was as good a spot as any to make camp. By the time they found a suitable place, shadows had engulfed the gully’s floor. Jaret left almost immediately, silently setting out to hunt for something to eat. Marcus went off as well to scout the area beyond the far side of the rise. Left to get on with matters at the campsite, Artorius built a small fire while Artor was despatched to gather a supply of dry wood. Marcus was the first to return with news that they were about as isolated as anyone could be. Then he and Artorius stripped themselves of their weapons, propped their swords at a bed site and instructed Artor to set his bed between them.

Jaret’s return was sudden. He appeared before anyone knew he was there on the edge of their camp. With a rabbit in hand, he made a short bow to his three onlookers, then handed his prize to Marcus. You do the preparing, he said with a brief grin. He looked about. Hope you don’t mind me making my bed here. He didn’t wait for an answer, but stripped off his sword and set it down next to the weapons of Artorius. The country has plenty of game… He sighed deeply. And I need to rest right now, more than I need find something to break fast.

For the most part conversation amongst the three men was desultory while the rabbit roasted. Artor sensed their mood, so fell into silence while his mind darted back and forth. This country. I don’t like it here. Where are the Britons? I must remember where the rowboat is.

After eating, sleep quickly overcame all of them.

The smell of wood smoke, the chink of metal made Artor wonder if he were dreaming. He sat up slowly, his eyes checking all that surrounded him. The light of dawn encompassed the hollow. The sky was clear and sunlight touched the tops of the trees upon the ridge. Jaret was gone along with his cloak and weapons. His father and Marcus were fully attired. Marcus tended the fire while his father squatted close by as if in need of its feeble warmth.

You’re awake. Artorius was studying his son. Good. Then he seemed to recognize Artor’s state of mind. Jaret has been gone a while. Hopefully he’ll be back soon. We’ll eat and be on our way.

Artor rose, clutching his cloak around his shoulders. He moved nearer the fire, his face serious. Do you think we’ll meet up with the Britons today?

Artorius opened his mouth to say something when Jaret’s approach drew everyone’s attention. He had not returned empty handed. This time he had a few fish in hand. Just where he caught them was anyone’s guess. No one asked. The fish were quickly prepared, cooked on hot stones, eaten, and with Artorius urging them on they left their camp.

The little party fell in behind Marcus to climb out of the hollow and then Artorius took the lead. Like yesterday they mostly travelled through forest. Occasionally they entered a clearing and for a moment or two enjoyed the warmth of the sun. And then the light brightened and they were on the fringe of the forest. Off to the southeast faint wisps of smoke rose straight up in the morning air. An aromatic taint of burning wood hung in the air. Immediately ahead were neat, cleared fields curving around the flanks of low, rolling hills. Further away rough pasture lands were visible and a clearly defined stand of trees far to the south. It was a fairy-tale land, a checkerboard of differing shapes and colours. To the north east, a giant hill, not unlike a camel’s hump, dominated the landscape. To the east, perhaps a quarter league away, a village squatted.

Those who lived there had taken care their homes would be safe from attack, for the entire village was surrounded by a wooden palisade reaching to a height well above that of a grown man. Two massive doors framed the main entrance to the hamlet, providing a wide and welcoming entry for the villagers and their carts to pass through. Dwellings of different shapes, some box-like, others circular, were neatly arranged around a central square and along a maze of lanes. To one side of the square rose a building somewhat larger than the others. Its walls were framed by heavy timbers with a cross affixed over the entrance. On the other side of the square was a building far more substantial than all the others. This building had walls framed in heavy timbers as well. Its roof was covered in thatch like that of the building with the cross. A carving of an eagle with wings arched back appeared over the lintel of the main entrance. It was familiar to Artor, having seen others like it on Roman buildings in Gaul. Like an umbilical cord, a road ran away from the main entrance, the section just outside the gates tamped down and smooth in appearance. As it curved beyond the nearest fields the route became two earth coloured paths and, further on, turf tracks marked the way.

The day’s activities had already started. Snatches of sound drifted faintly across the distance as the inhabitants prepared for the day ahead. Quite unexpectedly a girl appeared from behind the palisade. Wearing an earthen brown tunic to her knees, she stood straight, defiant, like a Roman standard. She raised a hand and caught a handful of hair disarranged by the wind while appearing to scan the countryside. Then she spun around quickly and passed out of sight. The massive doors to the village slowly closed although there was no discernible presence of anyone. Abruptly all went quiet as though the village had been suddenly struck dumb.

All Artor’s attention had been taken by the appearance of the girl. She had stood so aloof, eyeing all that surrounded her, almost in a mocking pose, with an all-seeing look as if nothing would escape her attention. The wonder of her radiant hair and her casual gesture to keep it in place had so caught his attention that he forgot the reality around him. The sound of his father’s voice startled him and brought him abruptly back to the present.

Tis a sight, his father hissed, shaking his head. Much has changed in eight years. More than I imagined. A look of puzzlement settled across his father’s features as his eyes skipped from one companion to the other.

No one said a word.

Well, now that I’ve seen the Saxon stronghold, let us find my home and then our allies. I hope they have not let us down. His jaw was set, his features dark.

Will you take a wager on that? Marcus asked, his eyes suddenly hooded, eyebrows knitted together, his mouth clenched firmly.

A wager. That I would handle, but tis not a sure bet. Artorius slipped the brooch from the shoulder of his cloak, letting it fall open. The hilt of his sword glittered, freed from the enshrouding cloak. I will not take the wager for it would bring bad luck, but soon we will put this, his father tapped the hilt of his sword, to the test.

So be it, said Marcus, drawing his sword and touching his bowed forehead.

From far away oxen brayed and then silence followed, as though the world was holding its breath like a swimmer about to plunge into water. Artorius hesitated, staring at the silent village. The sun filtering through the foliage created a dappled effect on ground, flashing off his well polished sword.

Artor looked at his father. Thinking they were about to retrace their steps, he stepped back, distancing himself several paces from the men.

Suddenly, everywhere, slicing through the dappled light and leafy cover, flew a rain of arrows, all from unseen bows. To Artor’s untrained ear, a most unnatural sound followed, like the swish of a scythe. Then a second shower of arrows pierced the area about him. Suddenly the morning air was shattered by war-cries. Men rushed headlong into the forest, leaping through the undergrowth, brushing aside the lower branches of trees with their swords and leather shields. To Artor they appeared to be giants, violent and ruthless. He lay low, frozen with fear, hearing his father’s shouts. He knew what was happening.

Oh, brave hearts! Be bold, my friends! Let our deeds be the stories for our children’s children!

Artor could see the bright windmill of his father’s sword as he shouted these words.

Look, Artorius! Tis sport! cried Marcus breathlessly.

Ahead! Watch!

Those were the last words Artor heard from his father. There was no stopping the Saxons. Their numbers were too great, their weapons too many. With resolute courage, the Saxons momentarily circled their prey, then hurled themselves upon Artorius, Jaret and Marcus. It ended as abruptly as it started. The alluring dream of Artorius to regain his kingdom and return his family and followers to this island home was crushed in moments.

Artor’s rabbit warren was not safe enough. The brutish enemy soon had him, their coarse voices harsh from the cries of battle. A blood-stained sword brandished above his head.

Tis no need. He’s a boy, a voice commanded. Look! He trembles! Fetch him here.

Artor was seized by the nearest Saxon and commanded to move forward. He staggered to his feet, too witless to run and fearful that at any moment he would feel the pain of a knife thrust into him. Seeing the motionless form of his father, he lurched free of his captor and stumbled over to his father’s body, falling on his knees beside it. He raised the lifeless face to his cheek. His own frame convulsed with grief as tears welled up and ran down his cheek.

Christ, preserve my father. Give me strength to amend this deed, he whispered.

His moment of grieving was painfully interrupted by someone’s powerful grip, a hand that had killed a moment before. Tis well you respect the dead, boy, but your neck will bleed ere long unless you come.

There was no hiding the intent of the edge of cold steel on his neck. The grip twisted his garment, wrenching him away from his father’s lifeless form. He resisted and gently lowered the body to the ground, knelt back on his heels and crossed himself. His father had talked of this land as pleasant enough, a fertile land with a long growing season, a land of forests abundant with game, a land of streams teeming with fish, a land for any man who loved the outdoors. But hunting had taken a far different form than Artor had imagined. In less time it takes for the sun to wink above the horizon, the Saxons had successfully hunted down and killed the threat to their village. Good hunting for them.

Now Artor was alone among strangers, in a situation very different than he had expected. A situation never imagined for that matter and quite beyond what he could handle. At that moment he was incapable of predicting his future, unable to understand that he owed his life to a Saxon and that he would play a role in the future of all those who surrounded him.

Chapter 2

Tears ran down Artor’s flushed cheeks as he knelt beside the body of his father. He clenched his jaw in an effort to regain his poise and stop the tears. He was not fearful of death or the surly faces of the men who stood over him, nor of their weapons. The son of Artorius, he thought, should possess the strength of will and the dignity to control his feelings. He should be like his father, like Jaret and Marcus had been just moments ago, strong, intrepid, able to face adversity. For some unknown reason appearances seemed important.

Then to his immense surprise his boyhood flashed to mind.

His father had little to do with him most of the time. His overwhelming memory of his father was of his sullen, quiet demeanour. Everyday matters, his small accomplishments along the road of growing up, what he learned from his tutor Pitre, were more often than not dismissed, not in so many words, but by his father’s inattention. Gloom had always seemed to surround his father. After a while he no longer sought his father’s company. There were moments when the disharmony and depression of his father’s demeanour did give way to jauntiness and optimism, always in the wake of good news from Britain and especially when his father’s return to Britain was being planned. It was a special time for Artor for it held out the promise that he and his father could develop a bond, something that never seemed possible while they lived in exile. Now all Artor’s hopes and expectations were dashed. He bit into his lip, once again blinking hard to stem the tears, but the anguish he felt, the disappointment, cut deep into his heart. Someone hoisted him roughly and he staggered to his feet. Soon they were on the move. Reality took flight and he felt as though he was drifting in a dream. Yet he remained vaguely aware of the day’s brightness, the occasional light breeze plucking at his hair and the sounds of human voices. His mind fixed on the image of his father’s lifeless eyes and then the image receded, replaced by that of a Saxon towering over him. It grew in clarity. Other Saxons joined the scene. Distorted faces emerged, triumphant after the savage conflict with his father, Marcus and Jaret.

Artor was aware that his life was now in the hands of others and he even expected to die. But he was still alive. A fleeting thought of being taken somewhere to be executed crossed his mind, but like a shadow the thought seemed of little consequence. He was alone and never before had he felt such pain in his heart.

They left the shadows of the forest verge for open country. The heat of the morning sun slowly brought awareness back to Artor. He squinted, forcing the sweat from his eyes. His strength seemed to have vanished and he found himself forced to concentrate on his footing. Keeping up with his captors took all his attention. Tramp, tramp, tramp, came the sound of many feet behind, in front and beside him. He noticed a few Saxons had been wounded in the skirmish. Their pace lagged behind the column. There was no military precision to these warriors. They fell into groups of two or three. What little he heard of their conversation was about the events just past. Their success had left them elated. To them the day seemed infused with a combination of sweet smells and glorious spring sunshine. Their words were of no interest to Artor. He breathed deeply and tried to maintain his dignity.

They traversed a long decline of grass and soft earth and then fell into two lines along a well-trodden cart path separating level fields of raw earth and ones touched by green. A flock of birds appeared suddenly. As if the earth had opened to set them free, the flock soared, twisting and diving in unison as if conducted by a giant, unseen hand, then disappeared into the deeper parts of a vale, out of sight for the moment.

How long will it be before I no longer walk this land? Artor had no answer until a strange feeling overcame him. He looked up at the clear sky. It was the blue of cornflowers. In the distance its colour softened. Soon the crickets and buzzing insects would bring their familiar music, background to the sun’s warmth. It had a pristine clarity to it. He sensed that this place would be a part of his life for years to come. Gradually the pain around his heart began to ease.

Tis a glorious day! The Saxon leader’s voice was strong, cutting off Artor’s reverie.

Aye, answered his closest companion, and not a man slain.

Artor thought of speaking out, of challenging the Saxon’s statement. He gave the one who had responded a stare. Can you not count? Correct me if I’m wrong but three were slain. Artor sniffed. If looks could speak he hoped the man had heard.

They passed a stand of apple trees and, further on, a cart, its flat-bed piled with branches, the traces lying on the ground without a team of oxen in place. Not long after, the palisade surrounding the village became clearer. Stout wooden tree trunks, all of a consistent diameter and height, made up the wall. A faint haze of smoke hung over the fortified village. The party moved onto a road leading straight to the main entrance.

Inside the massive gates, Artor was overwhelmed, feeling as if he had stepped into another world. For one thing, the serenity of the countryside was shattered by the familiar noises of vibrant life: animal sounds, children laughing, an axe striking wood, people calling out. He might have been part of new and perfect day unfolding. Two small boys halted their play as the party passed. Each stared at him, maintaining a reserved look, a curious one, neither rude nor hostile. They had heard stories of many battles, of enemies with strange sounding names, but never had they come face to face with a captive Briton. Both had vivid images of short, dark men, very warlike, who painted their faces and bodies before going into battle against the Romans and more recently against their kind. They had heard as well that after the Britons had gained victory over the Romans, forcing the once invincible legions of Rome to disperse and retreat, the Britons had become far harsher than the Romans had ever been in their treatment of others, especially Saxons. They wondered who this prisoner was. He had not the appearance of a Briton as they imagined. His hair was short, his features clean, without war-paint, and he was taller than the boys in the village.

Many of the homes inside the palisade were built of daub and wattle, with small parcels of land surrounding them. Well tended vegetable gardens covered each small plot. In some Artor recognized common herbs growing. A savoury smell of freshly baked bread and fried fish greeted as they passed one household. He caught the occasional breath of timothy hay and the sharper tang of horses as they moved further into the village. The sound of excited voices drifted through open doors and windows, and dogs wandered freely among the houses. Families were preparing their morning meal, perhaps later than usual. There had been a distraction, he realized, to the morning routines.

The members of the war party dispersed, each to his own home until only three men were with him. Despite his fear Artor felt the pangs of hunger. They led him towards the central hall. This building was larger than he had imagined, rising high enough to tower over all others. It was framed with stout timbers with the familiar daub and wattle infilling between them. Wooden planks framed the windows and the entrance.

Their quiet purposeful approach was suddenly blocked by the appearance of a woman standing in the entry way. She seemed of indeterminate age and despite being tall and slim, she seemed to fill the entrance with her presence. Surprising to Artor was the familiar dress she wore, made of wool with a plaid pattern of green and blue just discernible. It was draped over her shoulder falling in folds to her ankles, allowing complete freedom to her bare arms. At her right shoulder was an ornate circular fibula with a strange five pointed star in the centre. Her hair was the colour of a raven, streaked with grey, her eyes barely visible and outlined in black. She stood very still, her face impassive.

All Artor could think was how strange she looked.

The Saxon leader slowed despite the fact that no one called a greeting. It was as if the woman’s very presence demanded the attention of others. They halted a few paces from the entrance.

Tchah! Who is this, Ebor? Her voice was deep, welling up like the warnings of a guard dog.

Certes, ‘tis a boy. I think the son of Artorius.

Mad he was to return. And he is where? the woman demanded.

He lies at the forest edge now, like the leaves of last year.

The woman laughed, twisting her hands together. He has allies in this land and they are not so far way. It would be well you let no blood of Artorius live, Ebor. This cub will grow to be a man. Run him through the heart! She turned and disappeared into the main hall.

Ebor called after her, Let them know, Raven, that I want food and drink and for the boy too. He stood there swaying a little on his feet. His shoulders were as broad as a bull’s, yet his eyes were a soft blue and clear like the borage flower. He turned to Artor. Come, young Artorius, if that is who you are.

Confused and frightened Artor did as he was bid. The door of the great hall groaned open and he followed the one addressed as Ebor into the hall, the footsteps of the other two men close behind.

Down the length of the hall the dusk-like atmosphere was broken by shafts of sunlight pouring in through window openings. Unfamiliar sights and odours assailed Artor’s senses. Rushes and straw on the floor lay fresh and fragrant, smelling of outdoors. About the posts and beams hung blankets and weapons, shields of heavy leather, round and studded with steel. Artor measured the roof to be some twenty foot-lengths high, blackened through the years by soot and smoke, but soundly built of oak timbers, the lattice that supported the thatch just visible. The smell of old dinners, of hides and skins, was in the air and yet there was no mistaking the smell of freshly baked bread.

They went as far as the long table that fronted the main hearth. Ebor turned to him and, gesturing with a finger, said authoritatively, Sit down, boy.

Artor dropped wearily onto the bench while Ebor continued around to the opposite side and sat down facing him. His other captors remained behind him, somewhere in the shadows. He was acutely conscious of his surroundings and at the moment dumbfounded by the unpredictable actions of his captors. He found himself looking into the eyes of the man across from him.

What name do you go by? Ebor asked.

Artor felt his chest tighten. The woman Ebor called Raven had wanted him dead. He remembered the steel of others touching his neck and knew she wasn’t alone. Now he was about to confirm his paternity. For a fleeting moment he thought of lying, of using some other name. Artor, he said weakly.

From Artorius. Are you his son?

Artor let his head fall forward, breaking eye contact. I am.

"Well, Artor, son of Artorius, we have much to talk about, but first we eat.

Presently a bowl was placed in front of him by someone, its contents a steaming thick soup of fish and barley. Then a young boy approached and presented him with a terra cotta mug filled with ale. He nodded his thanks. Across the table Ebor was eating. Artor forced himself to try the soup. He was hungry and it smelled very good.

Artor ate slowly, head bowed, as if all that mattered in the world was the bowl into which he stared. He felt a spark of anger ignite. Anger, he realized, with himself for his lack of dignity. He did not want to appear a pathetic figure. Glancing about into the further recesses of the hall he saw others, including, he thought, Raven. He went back to eating. He had all but finished when his eye caught the rapid movement of someone. Quite suddenly Raven was very near. He raised his head, half smiling in a gesture to disarm her, but she flung out a hand as if to strike him.

Over all the muffled noises of the hall she bawled out, Tis evil you bring!

He did not say anything, not daring a response, but kept his eyes fixed upon her. It was like hearing the words of a story-teller when he was a child, words that send a chill through those listening. A portent of death filled him as the claw-like fingers pointed. He looked down and shivered. The shivering grew until his hands and legs trembled. Then the chilling figure wheeled about. He only heard her movements as she stalked off into the darkness, ranting at something or someone in her way. He stared at his mug like a moon-calf. A memory of a long forgotten event flashed to mind. It was winter, his first in Gaul. Snow lay heavy upon the fields. The ground was like stone. He was just out of woman’s clothes, his mother’s gentle arms no longer able to lift him. They stood together hand in hand and watched the men slaughter a brindled calf. The dumb beast just stood there, trusting, while the axe struck square upon its brow. He thought the calf such a helpless creature. Now he was thinking of himself, sitting motionless as he and all others watched Raven deliver her words. Was he as weak, as trusting as that calf? He broke his fixed stare, shook his head. No, he said silently.

Finished, boy? I’ll need you to come.

The fire in the hearth flared up, its flame blowing a hot breath.

Get up. Ebor commanded. He waved his hand, a careless gesture as if to clear the air.

Artor rose and followed after him, but the memory of the calf being slain lingered and now was tied to Raven’s dark pronouncement. The atmosphere of the main hall had become a death shroud covering his mind. More than anything he wished to escape, to leave behind this threatening place.

Almost immediately once outside the hall, breathing seemed easier and when Ebor set out for the main gates, for some inexplicable reason he felt more at ease.

It wasn’t long before they were beyond the stockade. Ebor slowed, beckoning Artor to walk alongside him. Despite a difference in age and position, keeping up with the Saxon was easy enough. He could hear Ebor’s rhythmic breathing, sense a determination in the Saxon. They moved together without a word. The silence provoked a memory of his riding lessons over countryside much like this. His lessons had become much more strenuous as he grew taller. During the past year his trainer-teacher Pitre had lengthened the stirrups not once, but a few times. Throughout the year it seemed he was never out of the saddle, riding each day until his legs and backside ached. He could now sit securely in the saddle, braced by his limbs and able to control his horse with his legs, allowing his hands and arms to remain free to handle his weapons.

I’m taking you to Merlyn. There was hardness in Ebor’s tone, as if he wished to wash his hands of him, as if the sooner he was out of sight the better.

I’m not to be executed. Relief flooded through him. He smiled faintly in relief.

Ebor led him away from the main route and out across the fields.

Then my father, can I bury him? asked Artor meekly.

If that’s your wish, you may, but later.

A cold shiver knifed down Artor’s back. What do you mean by ‘later’?

Ebor halted. For a few seconds he remained silent, as if Artor had shattered his thoughts and now he had to regroup in order to engage in conversation. There was no need to comment on Artor’s determined tone. In his world, a man’s poise, his movements, his tone of voice said as much as words alone. He turned to face Artor. So you want your father’s body before the wolves get it? Not waiting for a reply, he fell back into stride, moving ahead, his direction clearly towards the Tor.

As they walked on, Artor kept pace a few steps behind, but watched Ebor’s progress closely, making a study of the man’s back, surprised when momentarily he found himself thinking kindly towards the Saxon leader. But inexorably a new anxiety gathered. He tried not to think of this man named Merlyn.

In a short while, Ebor picked up the conversation as if he hadn’t paused, but there was softness in his voice now, an underlying gentleness like an expression of sympathy that caught Artor by surprise

Maybe I’m every kind of fool, but when I return to Cadbury, I shall dispatch men to raise a byre on the edge of the woods where your father lies. We’ll set a charcoal brazier burning to ward off the animals. For a couple of days the bodies will be safe. By then, you will have had time to deal with your father in a fitting way as is your custom.

Silence fell between the two again. How long it lasted, Artor was not aware for his mind was on his father. For the moment his worries about his father’s body were allayed.

A strident call from a bird of prey shattered the quiet. From overhead an answering call came and out of the blue, a falcon streaked across Artor’s line of sight to disappear on the other side of the hill. They moved on, finally cresting the hill to see in the dale three young people, one of whom was trying to tether the bird which refused to light, first approaching his master’s gauntlet then fluttering into the air, then landing on the ground out of reach. It was as if a game were being played.

Tis Gye, said Ebor.

Barely a moment later words from the group drifted back to them. Their presence had yet to be sensed. They continued their descent towards the trio. Artor assumed Gye was the one trying to catch the bird for he wore a falconer’s glove while the other two watched as it playfully evaded his efforts to secure it. And while Artor had time to observe all three he found himself focusing on the girl in the group. She was the same person he had seen while observing Cadbury from the verge of the forest.

Her words encouraging Gye to be quick and cunning were clear now. Then a burst of laughter rang forth as Gye rushed the bird, missed his footing and fell flat, while the impudent creature shot straight up in the air as if propelled by a jack-in-the-box. Gye rolled over, sat up, then noticed Ebor and Artor approaching. Faced filled with embarrassment, he jumped to his feet and blushed while brushing the dirt from his tunic. The others turned to face them. Both offered welcoming smiles, something Gye couldn’t manage. Now Artor had a closer look at the girl. Most arresting were her eyes, blue like the sky on a winter’s day, outlined by long dark lashes, with gently arched eyebrows. Their eyes met and for some inexplicable reason Artor felt a little self-consciousness, as if he had been caught out in a minor misdeed.

You look as if you had better find old Avius to help with that falcon. It’s young, too eager for the open air, but it came well enough when you called, Ebor said lightly.

Yes, Ebor, replied Gye. He had composed himself and looked towards Artor unsmiling. Their eyes locked until Artor broke the moment, looking to the sky beyond.

Close overhead, the falcon cried out, then approached, circling the group ever lower, calling out its strident cry of recognition. Gye reached out his gloved hand. This time the bird landed. Expertly, he hooded the falcon and tethered its leg to his wrist.

Gye had cinched the bird so adroitly that it seemed a fitting moment to say something in praise. Artor turned his head slowly to Ebor. Ebor said nothing, just stood there with his head tipped back as though looking at something in the distant sky.

The next moment the girl spoke, her quiet words genuinely complimentary. Avius would be proud of you, Gye.

Artor’s attention was drawn back to the girl.

Thank you, Vere. He nodded in salute to the compliment.

Not quite as good as that, I think, Vere. Still, you did well, Gye. Maybe you will be a falconer yet, said Ebor.

Suddenly, everyone’s attention left Gye and the falcon. The young stranger was now the centre of attention.

A long moment passed, a small eternity for Artor before Ebor gave a brief nod to the three young people and turned his attention back to Artor. Come, Artor, he said abruptly. We must get on if I’m to do anything before night fall. Ebor immediately started on his way without a pause to check for Artor’s compliance.

Momentarily too surprised to say anything, Artor glanced at the faces of the others. No one smiled; no one moved. He lowered his eyes, shook his head and followed, but found it difficult to brush off the cool looks of indifference. He had expected to be introduced, had wanted to meet those young people. He went on, a pace behind Ebor, dealing with a feeling of isolation, aware of an ache in his heart. It was some while before he snatched a glance over his shoulder, but when he did the trio had left.

Chapter 3

The cultivated fields soon gave way to more natural grassland and yet there was a path of sorts. They had descended a low rise that terminated in what looked to Artor to be immense swamp. Gradually the fresh air of the open country gave way to the taint of a stronger odour, a less pleasant one, unclean and slightly putrid. Underfoot the ground became soft and slightly damp.

Ebor slowed his rate of travel, moving with care as he led Artor along a path into the swamp. Clumps of cattails topped with matted heads lined the path. Trampled bracken, rushes and grasses, bleached brown and speckled with black rust, formed the path. Here and there the path was severed by a rivulet of black water. About them the air was alive with blackbirds and insects. A brief interruption in the screen of reeds presented the sight of open water and idle water fowl serenely afloat on the calm waters.

The cloying smell added to Artor’s anxiety. He couldn’t imagine why he was being led into such malodorous surroundings. The area lacked the soft perfumes of wild flowers, the smells of cultivated fields, of fruit bearing trees, of the countryside open to the wind. He became very careful of his steps and drew closer to Ebor. Moment followed moment, each marked by their further passage into the swamp. Daylight faded, overcome by the height of the dead reeds and the narrowing path. A stake of twisted wood crowned by a skull, maybe a muskrat’s, appeared suddenly in their path and Ebor halted. Artor sensed a change. Looking ahead he could see brighter daylight.

Ebor took a deep breath, his entire frame rising and then relaxing. Merlyn! he called, then took a few more steps, beckoning Artor to follow. As if by magic they stepped into a clearing open to the sky and defined by a wall of reeds. In the centre stood a small stone house with a roof of thatch and before it stood a man, perhaps ten years older than Artor. He wore a brimmed hat of leather, was clean shaven and his outer clothing consisted of a leather jerkin ending just above his knees. His arms were bare from the elbows down. Around his waist was a woven girdle. His sandals were of leather, secured to his feet with a long leather straps that encircled his ankle and instep. They were not unlike the sandals worn by the Romans. No weapon, not even a knife, was in sight.

Ebor! Welcome! You bring someone?

Yea, Merlyn, but not for your cures. This is Artor.

Really. Merlyn nodded, as if confirming something said, stepped forward, his hand outstretched. I’m Merlyn. Welcome, Artor.

Artor followed this stranger’s lead and offered his hand. A strange way to greet someone, Artor thought. It certainly was not the custom of his father to clasp a man’s right hand. For just that instant of physical contact, Artor realized the strength of this man. He appeared thin, almost frail, but there was no mistaking the strength in his handshake. Neither was it threatening. Rather it seemed a sign of friendship, a way of enjoining two people who were strangers to one another.

When they released hands, Artor turned to address Ebor, but found no one there. But… but where has he gone? Artor’s voice mirrored his rising concern.

Back to the village, Merlyn answered hollowly, shaking his head as he did so. He would not linger here. Like a swallow, to fly alone in strange surroundings for just a while, is a daring feat. There is greater comfort and safety with the flock.

Artor’s feeling of helplessness returned. For just a moment he entertained the idea of making a dash to escape the clearing. He had been offered no choice, no chance to consider any option other than to remain with this stranger, but an inner voice kept saying, Get control of yourself. You have no option. Under the circumstances he could only accept his lot. There was time for nothing more, at least for now.

His host turned, walked a few paces, halting beside a small, trestle table, its surface of logs neatly trimmed flat. With a welcoming gesture he indicated to Artor that he might join him.

Artor moved to where he was beckoned and sat down upon a stump that served as a chair. Without another word Merlyn went inside the dwelling.

Artor sat still and stared at the surface of the table, feeling a bit overwhelmed by Merlyn’s friendliness and acceptance of him. Then thoughts of his new circumstances crowded in. How different everything was from the main lodge of the Saxons and especially from his home. Until this morning life with his parents was the only one he had known. It had been a privileged life with servants to take care of the routines of life, with tutors to teach him, to accompany him and stand by him. Then he was struck by the thought of how dependent he had been. The life he had known was gone. He might never be back in Gaul in his parents’ villa, in sight of Cherbourg and all its activity. At the moment he could not imagine his future. He was alone with a stranger who lived in a small dwelling surrounded by a swamp, a place so frightening that a Saxon leader would make haste to leave it.

This Merlyn, he mused, must be a holy man. Maybe he punishes his own body. No, he does not have any outward signs of such treatment. His skin is tanned, almost the colour of bog water, without scars. He moves easily, effortlessly and stands erect. It seemed he knew I was coming. Mysterious. What manner of man is he?

Perhaps Merlyn guessed something of all this for he returned shortly with a smile on his face and handed Artor an earthenware mug. You’ve nothing to fear, he said quietly, a reassuring note in his voice. He placed his own mug upon the crude table and then sat down. It’s only a common herb brewed in water. We know it as camomile. It restores one’s health. As if to assure a reticent guest, he purposely raised his mug in a gesture of good health and drank deeply.

Cautiously, Artor raised the cup to his lips and tasted the warm, wheat coloured liquid. Within the mug he saw flashes of light glinting off its inner surface. For just a fleeting moment he wondered if he had been drugged or had come under the spell of some magic potion, but as he drank he discovered the source of this fascinating dance of light. The base of the container was inlaid with fragments of coloured glass neatly fitted together. Artor lingered over his drink enjoying the warmth that flowed through him and its honey sweetened taste.

Disarmed by Merlyn’s welcome, Artor’s trepidation slowly ebbed away. Was he no longer a prisoner? He had no answer yet, but a fleeting idea emerged from his muddled thoughts. Could it be that I am meant to stay here? There had been no restraint in Merlyn’s welcome, no reticence in having a stranger dropped upon him. It was as if a partnership had been in place even though neither had known the other until this moment. You have been most kind, he said and fancied his voice was a little higher than normal. Is it not the Saxon way that I should die like my father?

Merlyn checked a smile as if loath to wound his guest’s feelings by making light of his question. Artor, he whispered, I’m no camp follower of Ebor, nor are the Saxons barbarians. Like me, you are now an exile. This is Ebor’s intention. You have naught to fear from me, nor from Ebor.

Christ’s mercy, said Artor warily, that they have spared me. But I have sworn to avenge my father’s death.

Merlyn winced, then quietly went on. You wish to take the lives of those who granted you life? He paused as if unsure of what to say, then plunged on. Why would you wish that?

I would not be fit to be called my father’s son if I did not seek the death of those who killed him.

I think your father came to Britain intent on a violent course. Did he not? Merlyn asked.

There would have been fighting, I guess, Artor mumbled.

Did your father ask you to fight? For that matter, were you ever asked whether or not you wanted to return?

No, not really.

So, the reasons to return to this land were your father’s. He put his own life on the line and yours, as well. Fortunately for you, you are still here. No matter what you have been taught, the Saxons did not usurp your father’s rule. If you think this, let me tell you. Your father’s way with the Saxons was that of tyranny yet you wish to be remembered as your father’s son. He left his words hanging.

Artor said nothing and sat for a long time with his hand across his eyes, his mind swimming with disconnected feelings and sensations. Against the shimmering opaque light of his closed eyelids floated the images of places and people in his past and ones very new to him. Pictures of his father carried him through memorable events and landscapes of his time in Gaul and the nightmare of the morning just past. He saw the flailing sword of his father as he fought the Saxons and the end of his father’s life as he sank to one knee, his sword over his head as he tried to ward off the blows before collapsing to the ground. He saw his father and mother together on the wharf at Cherbourg embracing, saying their goodbyes, his father standing straight and confident and his mother holding back tears and clasping her husband’s robe in her fists. Behind her stood others of their household including Pitre and Equis. He hoped that there would be horses for Equis in the Elysian Fields that he talked so often about. Most clearly of all, he saw Ebor holding back his men with words as they were about to kill him. Confusion filled his mind. He thought of himself as following in his father’s footsteps, and yet, despite knowing Ebor for just a short time, had come to like him and thought that his liking was returned. He recalled the young people that he and Ebor had come upon enjoying the same activities that he might enjoy. There were other images, one of a forest track, of dabbled sunshine on the earth and surrounding trees. It had been like other occasions when he and Pitre had ridden together through the woods, across the countryside close to their home in Gaul. Then the sounds and sights of cold, black waves arose, water in motion and a ghostly moon winking through black clouds. A tangled array of faces and events passed, not fixed together as a whole but disconnected from one another, a mosaic of sights and sounds.

Merlyn had remained silent, recognizing that his words might very well have stung his guest. How solemn Artor’s handsome face looked, paralysed by thoughts that he had never before considered. He wondered if he had been too honest, too insensitive. He rose and left Artor